Smile
by nxstalgia
Summary: Chloe is finally hers, but it's not all it's chalked up to be.
1. Chapter 1

In another life we could work it out

But we never speak, so it's hard (to)

Do we really want to live this way?

Cause all I really want is you to stay

Comatose / Mikky Ekko

It started out perfect. You asked her to move in, and her smile blinded you. Her 'yes' came with a kiss, and her 'definitely'came with hands roaming the skin under your shirt. You could never resist smiling back, and you knew actions spoke louder than words, so you let yourself sink into her soft find an apartment in Manhattan. It's a shoebox in disguise, with cracked walls and peeling paint, but the light made her eyes impossibly blue, and when she looked at you, did you really ever have a choice?

When the landlord hands you the keys, there are two, and yours is chipped at the edge, but hers was painted a bright, obnoxious turquoise, so you clamp your mouth shut and take them wordlessly. She was the type of girl that wouldn't complain—because 'it could be worse', she always reasoned—and you were grateful for that, because it meant living in a cardboard box that smelled of old shoes and the decay of dreams left unfulfilled was okay by her. You loved that she could make you feel enough. You'd never felt that before.

Thirty-three days later, you both had fallen into an easy routine. In the mornings, you'd munch on burnt toast and sit on the floor where your kitchen should be, because the furniture hadn't arrived yet, and she'd kiss you on the cheek before leaving for the school she taught at. You stayed at home, working on your music. You were nowhere now, but you had high hopes—you were just a few more months shy of a contract. After all, this was a new chapter of your lives.

In the afternoons, if both of you weren't busy, you'd stop by with lunch and you'd eat in the cafeteria of her building. You listened to her babble, because she was beautiful when she babbled—of course, she was always beautiful, but this was the kind of beautiful you knew she didn't know about—and it made you happy. You loved that she could make you happy. She's prattle on about the kids she loved and the kids that loved her, and you listened, sure, but your eyes paid more attention than your ears. If she noticed, she hadn't commented about the way you never stopped watching her mouth. Instead, she let you kiss her goodbye in her classroom before a little girl she called Emily walked in with a smile bright enough to rival hers.

She'd be home by six, in time for you to microwave leftovers to eat, this time on the bed, and it's terrible and not what you expected, but also so much more than you could hope for. You talked about everything—annoying ex-boyfriends and missing her the six hours since you'd last seen each other. Once the dishes were cleared away, she let you slip her shirt off. She let you push her onto the bed and bite her lip. She almost tasted better than she could love. As you fall asleep, she'd trace the lines on your face, whispering about her day against the noise outside your building.

What amused you, though, was how forgetful she was. She remembered everything about you, down to the embarrassing stories your mother shared with her to the way your eyelids droop when watching the morning news, but she couldn't seem to make a habit of bringing her keys with her when she leaves the flat in the mornings. You'd happily wait her return in the evenings, letting the door swing open to reveal the love of your life. She looked at you breathlessly, like you were her hero (which was preposterous, but her eyes were so blue, and you were so you) and you loved that you meant something to her.

Could you ever be her hero?

For a while, a blissful while, you thought you had gotten it right. Your music was finally getting noticed, to a point. A publicist had contacted you about signing you on. You eventually paid enough to repaint your walls, though the truck of your furniture had been sent to Mexico in place of a Taco truck that had stopped by extremely confusedly. For a while, you were happy.

With a meek smile, you thought it was funny, how she was busier than you. Just a few months ago, she hadn't even known what she was going to do. (And you want to feel jealous, but you truly can't.) You supposed you were okay with all your free time, because she'd be back in your arms by the end of the day.

Until one day, she doesn't come home. You waited up for her—you always did—but she didn't come home until four in the morning the next day. You had forgotten to eat your cold lasagna, and good riddance because it was never that good anyway, but it was her that made it taste good. You opened the door for her wearily, not having slept the last night, but she was fully rested, carrying her heels in her hand as if they were feather-light.

'Where were you last night?' you asked, but she shrugged and kissed your cheek, and you could almost taste the guilt she exuded. She reeked of it, though it could have also been the alcohol.

'The team went out for drinks,' she said shortly, getting herself a cup of water. 'I hope you didn't wait up.' She set her phone on the counter, draining the cup like it was a shot. Ironically, you wonder if she didn't have enough the night before.

'A call would have been nice,' you said, but nothing more, because fighting her made your knees weak, and that was something you'd work on, eventually. She apologized, pressing her lips against yours, and you forgive her. Did you want to forgive her?

It doesn't happen for another week, but she's started having lunches with her friends. You could stand Aubrey, the rigid blonde who now did her best to smile at you, but couldn't she have called? On Fridays, she has breakfast with them too. Your lunch always sat by your laptop unnoticed as you crane over your music. The notes didn't blend seamlessly anymore. The melody was missing something, and so were you. Idly, you wondered if this was what withdrawal felt like. She was your drug, maybe. You almost smiled at the sentiment; she probably wouldn't.

You still waited up for her at night. You'd think it was okay, given your work was at home, and you could use more work hours, but it soon got old, and it soon became a chore. Waiting for her had never felt more like an obligation. You haven't forgiven her. She doesn't come home another night, and this time she arrives home just in time to leave again. When you asked where she was, she bowed her head.

'You didn't answer the door,' she muttered.

'Maybe you should bring your key,' you spat, though you know you didn't mean it. Why did you say that? She looked hurt; almost as hurt as you felt. You missed your smile, and you wanted nothing more than to turn the corners of her mouth upwards again. You spoke before your voice could waver, before your voice could think. 'Why are you acting like this?'

'Like what? Like I have a life? You're not my dad.' It was meant as a defense, but it sounded spiteful. You flinched at the low blow. For nights at a time, she wouldn't come home, the same excuse on her lips each time. You realized you had waited for her every single night. Was there a point to it?

You remembered the way she used to look at you, and the way you used to look at her. What would you give to see all of it again?

When you first met, you were surprised that she could make you smile. When you first moved in, you were surprised that she could make you laugh. She made your heart sing louder than your mouth could. Glaring at the unmoving door now, you're surprised how lonely she could make you feel.

On a particularly rough morning, questions turned to accusations, and accusations into arguments. It had never been this bad before, and you blamed it on the liquor on her breath. You understood that you were falling out of love. Her endearing single-mindedness had become stubbornness, and her unrelenting passion became an inability to compromise. What you first loved about her wholly became the last thing you could love about her; what else was there to love?

You still tried, though. For another month. This was her, and she mattered more than anything in the world. You called each night to make sure she was safe, and she would brush you off each time, but she still answered her phone, and that was something, right? You tried to remind her to bring her keys, and she agreed each time, but still forgets it as she slips her heels on. A part of you thinks she leaves it on purpose so you'd wait up for her, so she knew she could depend on you. You wonder what the point was if she never came home anyway. You wanted to make this work; did she?

Love wasn't meant to feel this exhausting, you thought. When you voice this, she tried to kiss you again. You pushed her away roughly—maybe a bit too roughly. Her eyes are brimmed with tears, like she was the victim, and she dropped the plate in her hand. You looked at her as if defeated, and she picked another plate up to throw at you. It missed, but it still smashed against the wall behind you dangerously. There was murder in her eyes. Murder, but no guilt. Never any guilt. You felt your neck flush.

You remembered the last time she looked this angry—it was when you first tried to leave. You didn't do it then; could you do it now?

You didn't think you two would be that couple, where one smashed plates against paper-thin walls (never at her) as the other locked herself in the bathroom, covering her ears to block out her anger. Or guilt. It could still be guilt. You told yourself to calm down, that you loved her. That you cared. Your hands gently knocked against the bathroom door, pleading in a voice you had never needed to use with her before. She didn't answer; didn't bother to.

You wondered when you had gotten it all so wrong.

Eventually the night grew too old, and you slept alone for the thousandth time (though that was impossible, because you hadn't gotten more than a month's worth of sleep since she's moved in). As you drift off, you heard her footsteps tread down the hall and out the door, and you pull yourself out of stupor to check if she left her keys. She had.

This time, you went back to bed. It's her. You love her. You loved her. But you needed to take care of yourself—she doesn't need a key for a door she wouldn't enter. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chloe

Smile, the worst is yet to come

We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

Smile / Mikky Ekko

Her knuckles rapped against the door, which would seem rude, but Beca never seemed to care anyway. It had taken her an entire month to calm down and come home. Home. Her first home had been in Georgia, miles away. Her second had been at Barden, where she had made—no, built—a family. It had taken an entire thirty-one days for her to remember Beca Mitchell was an enormous part of that family, and an enormous part of why she was even able to call Barden home. For the first few weeks, this flat had been her third.

There was no answer. Had she expected one?

For thirty-one days, Chloe had taken up residency on Aubrey Posen's couch, sobbing silently into embroidered pillows. She couldn't figure out why she had been so broken, until this daunting day. For thirty-one days, Chloe had been lost, just like she feared.

Chloe Beale knew what lost was to other people—not having anywhere to go. Not knowing where you could go. It was different for her. Chloe could feel lost. She could feel the pull on her bones, dragging her every move down. She could feel her heart skipping beats when reminded she didn't have Beca waiting behind the creaky wooden door. She could feel her throat clamp and her fingers tremble. Home wasn't a house, it wasn't the Bellas house, it wasn't even the apartment—it was Beca.

"Beca?" Chloe called, holding her breath. She counted the seconds that passed. When she reached sixty, she took a deep breath, blinking furiously as her eyes swelled, and exhaled. With the exhale came a torrent of emotions she was not ready to feel, and would never be able to feel. The most obvious of the hurricane was her guilt. This is my fault.

Eventually, Chloe asked the cheery landlord to open the door. He was an aged man, with a toothy smile and the wrinkles of frequent grins around his eyes. If he had thought Chloe was pathetic, he didn't show it. Chloe listened as the lock clicked open, and the old man limped away, tucking his keys in his pocket. Just as he was about to turn the corner, he looked back, something in his eyes Chloe couldn't place. Sympathy?

"Don't be too disappointed when you go in," he wheezed. "I'm sure she'll be back in no time."

Chloe wanted to scream at him. Instead, she mirrored his wistful smile, hand on the doorknob of the apartment. "I'll try."

Inside, Chloe felt her heart sink at the sight that met her. The painted walls, once an atrocious, Beca-would-only-do-it-for-Chloe yellow was now a melancholy mustard. The wall where Beca had pasted pictures of them together was bare, and the absence of furniture seemed more distinct than ever. Her feet guided her to the kitchen area, staring at the old blanket they had laid down on the ground as a tablecloth.

They had meals together on this tablecloth. They had smiled together, laughed together and made fun of Chloe's colleagues together on this tablecloth. Beca had fucked her on this tablecloth. She felt the warmth on her cheek before she knew she was crying.

The rest of the flat was cleared out, not a trace of Beca anywhere in it. That was what Chloe thought, until her eyes landed on a piece of paper, waiting for her by the mattress on the floor.

Chloe,

I can't believe I'm writing you a letter. That you may not even read.

I'm sorry I lost my temper. I spent a few days trying to glue the pieces of the plates back together, but I guess a shard or two vanished, because I couldn't find them all. If I were Jesse, or Emily or my dad or whatever, I'd say that was a pretty good metaphor for us.

You probably won't even come back. That's cool.

I waited thirty days for you to come back, Chlo. I worked hard on my music, and I've been signed by a label in LA. I'm going there after all. It wasn't that I had given up on us, but you had. I waited thirty days, and as queer as this may sound, I know I don't deserve that.

If you're reading this, and you're safe and okay, then I want to say I love you. Uh, present tense. Future tense, too. If you're ever in LA, you know where to find me…

(Totes working with David Guetta)

I'm sorry we couldn't make it work.

Chloe shook her head, rubbing her eyes. This was her fault. Beca had waited thirty days. Just one more, and they would have been together. What were the chances Chloe missed Beca by twenty-four hours? Chloe wasn't a math teacher, but she knew it was a pretty fucking slim chance.

She couldn't help feel proud of Beca, getting signed to a label. If the letter wasn't enough, imagining Beca succeeding in her passion was. I love you too.

When she called Aubrey, the blonde was perfectly happy letting Chloe move in with her. Chloe's new home was a leather couch that stuck to her thighs in the summer, and was too cold in the winter. Her job paid enough to pay rent to the Posen, who had consistently declined. "Not until you're out of this rut," Aubrey would say, more tough-love than anything. Chloe was grateful for that.

Dreaming about Beca was what hurt the most. It wasn't something she could avoid with schoolwork, or push away. It was her subconscious, craving Beca's touch. Missing Beca's voice. Chloe's memory of Beca's smile was marred by the scowl the brunette had the last time they saw each other. It was safe to say Chloe was a wreck.

"I did this to myself," she would murmur into the dead of the night, when the door to Aubrey's room had long closed. The ginger would cry. And cry. And cry. But everybody runs out of tears. Everybody has a breaking point, and Chloe was a finger from crossing hers.

The letter never left Chloe's pocket. It was crinkled along its edges, like paper was when held for too long or too frequently. It was both, she thought. Chloe was never one for not giving one hundred percent into something, and she was terrified when it dawned on her that her relationship with Beca was what she hadn't been completely invested in. This is my fault.

When Chloe went to Aubrey with a teary goodbye, the blonde nodded understandingly. This was a journey only Chloe could travel. She was bound to LA. Not for Beca; for herself. For a new start. There was a performing arts school in Hollywood that was thrilled to take her on, and if the school was only two blocks from Capitol Records and Beca Mitchell, so be it.

(She wasn't moving there for Beca.)

(Not completely.)

-

Her new school was a lot nicer than her last. The walls were splattered with different shades of paint, a mural by the students done of the school's tenth anniversary. It was art that screamed at Chloe, demanding her attention from across the room. The blends of different hues seemed to whisper to her, indecipherable words that she was inexplicably drawn to.

"They call it the Therapist," a familiar voice said, jolting Chloe from her reverie. When she turned, her eyes widened at the sight of Stacie Conrad, who was grinning at her, beautiful as ever.

"Stacie!" Chloe grinned, rushing forward to hug her old Bella. "I thought you were in New York! Aubrey mentioned Fashion Week-,"

"I work here now," she said, shaking her head with a happy smile. Chloe felt genuinely pleased for Stacie, seeing the lack of wistfulness on her face. When Chloe was rendered speechless, Stacie held an arm out to the hallway, where students were watching them with curious eyes. "Come on, cap. My turn to lead."

Stacie led Chloe through all the basic routines of the school—lunch, assembly, class schedules, teacher-student fraternization restrictions. Chloe did her best to take it all in, but her cheeks hurt by the end of the tour at the prospect of working with her old friend again. What are the chances?

"You look good," Stacie commented, looking Chloe up and down. "I heard about Beca."

Chloe felt her neck flush, her chest heaving as the name was mentioned. "She moved to LA a few months ago," she said quietly, not quite able to meet Stacie's gaze. Stacie nodded, almost guiltily. She understood. Chloe pressed on, letting Stacie guide her to her classroom. Despite her affinity for vocal teaching, Chloe was the new dance teacher. "So what do you teach?"

"Not teach. I'm the school nurse," she corrected. "The bell will ring in thirty minutes, do you want to go grab breakfast first?" Chloe bit her lip, looking around her bare classroom. She felt excited about what she could do with a blank canvas. This was her new start. This was something beautiful. Still, this was Stacie, and the leggy brunette had always had Chloe's back, all those years ago. If Stacie wanted breakfast, Chloe could do breakfast.

"Sure, why not?"

Stacie smiled at her, the same smile she shot that night during the retreat. Chloe felt a wave of grief at the memory, pushing it away with a soft smile of her own. Stacie's eyes unfocused to the students behind the ginger, eyebrows arching. When Chloe turned around, a few students were staring at her oddly, a familiarity in their eyes. A few of them were taller than Chloe, both boys and girls almost leering at her. Just as she wanted to comment, Stacie laid a hand on her shoulder, smiling sympathetically.

"Ignore the students, cap," Stacie said, dismissing the crowd with a wave of her hand. "Beca visits sometimes. Helps the production team learn how to mix. I'm more sure than not she's mentioned you."

Chloe was only half listening, but perked up at the mention of Beca. "She mentions me?"

"Chloe…"

Chloe mumbled a halfhearted apology, ducking her head as Stacie led the way out the building. Lunch was a half hour drive away that mostly consisted of Stacie catching up on the last few months. It hadn't been her original plan to work at a school, but the school offered hours she just couldn't turn down.

"So how've you been?" Stacie asked, hands on the steering wheel. "It was weird not to hear from you."

If she were someone else, Chloe would have brushed it off, or muttered something about needing her time. It was the truth: she needed time to get her mind off of Beca, and if it hadn't worked completely, that wasn't Chloe's bad. Right?

But Chloe was Chloe, and Chloe Beale didn't impose her grief on anyone else. Chloe wasn't the girl to bring the mood down—she was usually the one holding it above everyone else's heads to reach. This time was no different. No time was different, really.

"I'm here now," Chloe said firmly, sparkling blue eyes on the view. The city wasn't a place she was familiar with, and like she always did, she thought to herself: better late than never.

"Have you found a place yet?" Stacie questioned, pulling into the parking lot of the nearest restaurant. Chloe hummed to herself, pushing the button of her seatbelt as it zipped back in place. She hadn't found place yet—she was staying at the on-campus teacher dorms on the top floor.

"Nope," she said, popping the 'p' as her lip curl.

"I know a guy who could help," Stacie offered kindly. "He's nice… Tall… Handsome…"

It wasn't outright mentioned, but the implication was there, sitting like a thick fog in the small car. Chloe wanted to blow it away. Swallow it down. Air it out. Whatever. It just wasn't an idea she was comfortable with yet: being in arms that weren't Beca Mitchell's.

"I'm not dating," Chloe giggled, brushing Stacie's arm affectionately. "But that was nice of you to offer. Now let's go—I haven't eaten properly in ages."

The food was better than microwaved pizza. That was a given. Stacie had forced the Bellas numbers back into Chloe's phone, naming each Bella with their own emoji. With a pang of… well, surprise, Stacie had updated Beca's number into her phone as well. Instead of replacing it, however, she had added in a new one, under the "Work" option.

Chloe enjoyed Stacie's company. Back at Barden, Stacie had grown unexpectedly close to Aubrey, and by default, Chloe too. It would never be what she had with Beca, but it was a friendship Chloe was content with—a feeling she hadn't felt in a long time.

"So you've seen Beca around?" Chloe asked, munching on her salad. She liked the way it crunched between her teeth, making her grin to herself.

"It's hard not to," Stacie said absentmindedly. "Billboards everywhere. She's making a name for herself. Like, a name that David Guetta wants to be related to."

Chloe almost smiled at the mention of David Guetta. Her first instinct was to be proud of her. She had moved on and was steps away from her dreams. They were both living their dreams. It was just that in Chloe's head, their dreams had been intertwined, almost merged together. They had been her dream. "I'm so happy for her," Chloe said, genuinely.

With some difficulty, Stacie smiled.

"CR's wedding was fun," the brunette said, flipping their conversation like a page of a book. "Even Aubrey attended." The question was left hanging in the air, making Chloe's skin crawl. She remembered getting the invitation to the wedding, remembered Beca slipping it out of her hands. Remembered Beca's lips on her shoulder as she did her best to watch where it landed when the brunette tossed it aside. Why hadn't you two attended?

"I drowned in work," Chloe lied, knowing the taller girl didn't believe it for a second. "Maine's a long way away."

Stacie nodded, too many times to be real. Finally, she stood up, tossing the car keys into Chloe's lap. "I'll go pay-no, don't, I've got a cousin who owns this place. Go start the car, we'll be late to the bell."

Grudgingly, Chloe stood up and left to the car, peering backwards where the brunette was batting her eyelashes at the waiter. Shaking her head, she smiled to herself. It's been so long since she'd smiled for herself. She regretted missing the wedding—it must've been a blast. She hadn't even gotten the chance to meet the lucky gal marrying their CR. Still looking behind her, Chloe didn't see the figure walking towards her, at a pace too brisk to stop in time.

Chloe collided with the figure, tripping when her foot missed the concrete step. With enough time for her mind to register her fall, a hand lashed out to grab hers, steadying her.

The ginger held back the string of curses that threated to unravel, instead settling for a quiet, "Shoot-sorry! I wasn't looking where I was go-,"

"Chloe?" The voice that said her name stopped her. She knew that voice. She'd memorized that voice.

"Beca," Chloe breathed. Her cheeks were flushed, their nose an inch apart. Beca's eyes grew impossibly dark, jumping from Chloe's eyes to her lips repeatedly. Biting her tongue, Chloe took a quick step back, picking up the fallen car keys.

Beca looked well. Great, even. Before they had left Barden, Chloe had managed to wriggle her way into Beca's wardrobe, something Jesse had no qualms with. Once they were out of Barden, Beca had returned to tight shirts and loose plaid, especially given her work was done at home. It seemed Hollywood had gotten to her, because Beca was dressed sexier than ever.

(Not that the plaid wasn't sexy.)

(Chloe was sure Beca knew what the plaid had done to her.)

What left Beca's mouth next, however, ruined the entire image. There was a lot of things Chloe never was, and one of those things was flustered. Then again, Beca was never one for rules, because the ginger turned almost as red as her hair when the beautiful woman behind Beca shot her a thin-lipped smile, and Beca took a half step back to introduce her.

"Chloe, this is, uh, Madeline," Beca said, the faintest hint of a blush across her pale nose. "My…" she hesitated. "Friend."

Really, the hesitation told Chloe all she needed to know. 


End file.
